Betrothed (4 page)

Was
this a man to show leniency to an impostor? 

Then
she remembered Christian. She felt a bittersweet smile curve the corner of her
mouth. The black-haired three-year-old had been a miniature of his father. The
boy had adored his much-absent parent as much as the puppy the man had given
him. A puppy the fierce warrior had brought across the waters from Normandy.

All
too soon, Isabeau recognized landmarks close to Olivet. The very air seemed as
oppressive as Simon’s rule. While not overly hot, the hazy sky teased the farmers
with a hint of rain that the clouds refused to release. She felt disheartened
not only at her return, but also at the realization she had not covered as much
ground as she had thought. Simon’s fury at her attempt to escape would know no
bounds. She would be lucky if she survived this day.

But
she was of Olivet. Determination stirred.    

Straightening
her spine, she called out desperately at her captor’s back, “my lord?”

For
several heartbeats, she thought he was going to ignore her but then he slowed
the pace of his horse to easily fall in line with her.

“Yes,
milady?” he asked with a sardonic crook to his brow, the white line prominent
in the sun.

“I
would ask a boon of you.”

There
was no humor in the laugh that rolled out of his mouth. “You are a bold little
bit. And what would this boon be?”

“I
would ask that you allow me to enter the gates of Olivet without my—present
costume. I would not wish to—to disrupt the manor any more than it will already
be when your party arrives.” She prayed he would relent. She prayed he would
change his mind and continue on to Montrose, but she knew in her belly such a
change was too much to hope for. They were too close to Olivet to not take
advantage of its’ available hospitality.

“Think
you that by now your people would not have noticed your absence?”

“I—I
beg of you, my lord. Please, allow me to change my clothes.”

His
blue eyes seared into her soul and for a moment she thought she recognized pain
in his depths. “Very well. You can momentarily continue your charade of
innocence. But I make no promises for the future.”

They
had traveled with only brief stops and arrived at the gates of Olivet after the
evening meal. When the sentry had exclaimed at Isabeau being in the midst of
the group, his lordship made a casual comment about meeting her a short
distance down the road; that she had agreed to act as guide.

She
continued the charade by boldly leading the way into the Great Hall and then
seeing to the needs of the road-weary travelers. In her nervousness, she forgot
her new position and issued orders as if she were still the chatelaine of
Olivet. But she was not anxious to join the meal. Her belly was too gnarled to
take more food than pieces of bread.

As
of yet, the earl had held his tongue, but he had yet to meet her brother.

She
sent a message to Simon but he never came to the hall to greet his prestigious
guest.

The
servant did not even bring back regrets. Why was he behaving this way; putting
them all in danger of Bennington’s anger? The earl was Simon’s liege!

Where,
in the name of the saints, was Simon?

Even
in the familiarity of her own bed, exhausted as she was after her fruitless
adventure, Isabeau slept fitfully. Every sound seemed to reverberate through
the Manor. She started at the smallest noise, expecting any minute that Simon
would throw open her door and lay into her with his favored crop. The
anticipation was far worse than a beating. She just wanted it over.

Dragging
herself out of bed, Isabeau entered the kitchens before the night melted into
day. Marley met her with storm of excitement over their guests and the pressure
to provide accustomed fare suitable for the earl. Isabeau didn’t bother to
remind the cook that conditions would be primitive on the battlefields.
Instead, she pitched in, allowing Marley’s reflected enthusiasm to mask her
trepidation.

All
was ready when Donovan came down the tower stairs and his men had assembled
from the barracks or from the bedrolls they had spread out in the Great Hall.
The Olivet people gave way to the Bennington warriors as was their place.
Chattering voices echoed from the vaulted ceiling; the sing-song rhythm of a
comfortable keep. Isabeau looked over the crowded tables with pride. This was the
Olivet of her girlhood. This was the way it should always be.

She
scanned the room one last time and noted the two empty chairs at the head of
the table. Syllba was yet in childbed, having lost another babe several weeks
past. Isabeau didn’t think even the king’s presence could get her sister-in-law
into the Great Hall.

But
Simon? 

To
her knowledge, he had still not welcomed his liege. What was he thinking? 
Was he even within the walls of Olivet?  And if not, why had none of his
personal attendants said anything?

She
gave the nod to the house priest to lead the prayer of thanks and bowed her
head in supplication. As his final “Amen” bounced against the walls, she gave
the servants the signal to bring their loaded trays to the tables. She was
happy, standing at her post directing the well-orchestrated movements,
occasionally casting a glance or two towards the legend now occupying Simon’s
throne.

The
blue of Lord Donovan’s eyes held the shadows of pain, though presently they
were lit with humor as he spoke in low tones to the serving boy pouring his
ale. She studied the small white scar that ran under his left jawbone. Who had
nursed the wound that had left behind such a mark? 

She
would have made good her escape back into the kitchens if not for the object of
her wayward thoughts.

“Lady
Isabeau!”

She
jumped and bumped into the serving girl walking by her.

“Y-yes,
my lord?” Her cheeks burned with the crack in her voice -- so much a remnant of
their encounter at the creek. She wanted nothing to remind him of her escapade.

“Come
break your fast with me.” He indicated the empty chair to his left. Lady
Syllba’s chair.

How
could she refuse her liege lord?

Feeling
all eyes upon her, she stiffly made her way across the room. With exacting
care, she managed not to create a calamity.

He
stood as she approached the table and waited until the serving boy had assisted
her into her sister-in-law’s chair before resuming his place.

“You
set a delicious table, my lady. Each bit tempts one to take another,” the
warrior complimented in his deep voice.

How
was she to think of food?  How was she to get a morsel into her mouth
without gagging? All she wanted was to know what he would tell her brother --
and when. This was the man who held the truth of her failed escape.

Licking
her suddenly dry lips, she tried to find words to respond to his compliment.
She opened her mouth and his rugged hand placed a morsel of bread and honey to
her lips. Careful not to bite the hand that fed her, she pulled the proffered
food in with her lips and tongue. Chewing, she prayed she wouldn’t choke on the
warm bread.

She
swallowed quickly, “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord
Donovan looked up from perusing the egg dish that had just been set before him
as a scowl creased his brow. “For what?”

His
expression of mild confusion drew her attention once again to the white scar
that traced the side of his face. Momentarily, she lost track of the
conversation, and her eyes strayed back to the blue of his.

“For—for
your compliment and—and for not exposing my folly to my brother.”

His
scowl deepened. “I made no promises to keep my silence.” Then his expression
lightened with wry humor. “It would be extremely difficult to discuss any
matter with Lord Simon as I have yet to meet the man.”

She
could find nothing to say in her brother’s defense so she wisely kept her mouth
shut.

The
earl pointedly tore off a large hunk of the warm bread “I noticed a few changes
in Olivet as we approached last eve.”

“My
lord?  Is this not your first visit to my father’s keep---pardonez—my
brother’s keep?  Surely, I would remember the visit of my father’s liege
lord.”  She ordered herself to watch her tongue. At all times, she must
remember everything now belonged to her older half-brother. The consequences
could be painful.

“It
has been several years since I have come to your gracious home. I was but a boy
when I visited with my father and then later with your grandfather -- may God
keep both those honorable men.”

For
a moment, Isabeau thought she had misheard his words. “My grandfather?”

“Aye,
my lady.” Donovan picked up his goblet and took a swig. “I fostered with your
mother’s sire. Lord Tourrey was a hard taskmaster, but fair. I learned many of life’s
lessons under his wise tutelage. And your grandmother was as beautiful as she
was gracious. You have much the look of her.”

Warmth
grew in her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

When
his smile widened, she knew he must have noticed her blush. She successfully
resisted the urge to cover her face. “If it pleases you, my lord, I would have
you share your recollections of my grandparents one day.”

“I
would be honored to share fond memories with one as charming as my beautiful
hostess.”

“Lady
Syllba is your true hostess,” she quickly reminded him again. “I am but…”

Donovan
waved a hand to cut off her objections. “You have recited enough of that
catechism. I am not a blind man. Mayhap ‘twould be best if we changed the
subject. Do you play chess?  Might you challenge me to a match after the
evening meal?”

As
if she would refuse any of his requests. “Mayhap.” She couldn’t believe the
words that began to spill out of her mouth. “Mayhap, I will challenge you to
target practice instead.”

His
dark brows lifted a fraction. “Target practice, my lady?”

“Aye.”
Where had this boldness come from?  She had thought it leached from her by
Simon’s beatings. “My papa trained me to throw the knife when Mama was not
looking. I’m quite skilled.” How dare she be such a braggart?

“I
look forward to the competition.” A teasing sparkle lit his midnight blue eyes.

Isabeau
took a sip of wine to dampen her throat and strengthen her courage. The time
seemed right to bring up the past. “I wanted to tell you that I grieved when
the news reached us of your loss. I did not know your lady wife well for she
spent much of her time here comforting Simon’s wife in her confinement, but I
had some grand adventures with Christian. He was so vibrant and full of energy.
I was struck dumb when word came that fever had taken him so soon after their
last visit to Olivet. My prayers are with them and with you also.”

The
blue in his eyes darkened to black. “Thank you for your words and kind
thoughts. Time has softened the blow but it is good to know that Christian
could and did enjoy the short time he had on this earth. I was away on the
king’s business and could only say my farewells to his grave.”

Isabeau
rested a comforting hand on his forearm. “He missed his papa, but he was brave.
Even at three, he knew he wanted to be just like you.” She laughed at a fond
memory. “He absolutely adored that rascal of a puppy you brought back for him
all the way from across the channel. He wouldn’t be separated from the
Beauceron for a minute. “Jaffey is Papa’s pup,” he would say with no little
pride.”

“Jaffey?”

She
could feel a bittersweet smile curve her lips. She had grown quite fond—even
dare she say it—grown to love the dark-haired little boy. He was the shining
spot in an otherwise dark period. “In many ways Christian was most articulate,
but he couldn’t quite get his tongue around Geoffrey. The name always came out
as ‘Jaffey.’ ”

“Did
he visit long?”

“Oh,
the countess brought him several times for lengthy visits after Simon and
Syllba moved into Olivet. She and my sister-in-law were great friends. After
the first visit, your wife’s old nurse—I think her name was Aggie?”

“Granya?”

“Yes.
Granya.” She smiled at him. She couldn’t help it. “Granya wasn’t able to make
the trip comfortably at her age. I spent a great deal of time with the young
lordship.  He was a joy and could melt many a heart with his smile.”
   

“I
had no idea Marta ventured away from Bennington.”

Something
in his tone put Isabeau on edge. “I don’t know that she visited other places.
Bennington is far enough away that an overnight stay -- or longer -- was
practical.”

“I
see,” he agreed. He tore a large hunk of bread from the loaf they shared and
stood. She sucked in her breath as she looked up. By the saints, he was
big!  Tall and broad shouldered. He was a solid wall, a formidable
barrier. “I regret we cannot continue our conversation, but your brother’s
steward, even now, waits to give me a tour of Olivet. Anon.”

He
gave her a fleeting smile before bringing her hand to his lips. It was but a
fleeting caress, the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but his mouth seemed to sear
her skin.

And
then he was gone.

But
not the sensations he left behind.

She
reached for her goblet and promptly knocked it sideways.

Quickly,
she mopped it up with the corner of her apron, glad that he wasn’t there to see
another of her catastrophes. She knew that Porter, Simon’s steward, had
instructed the kitchen to prepare a substantial mid-day repast for the earl’s
tour of Olivet, so Isabeau continued with her normal chores. Her only reward from
the usual routine was the anticipation of the evening’s entertainments.

Excitement
warred with guilt.

Curiosity
battled with dread.

How
could one man be so different from all of the others?

She
had thought her father’s tales exaggerated. Too bold to real. But upon meeting
the man of legend, he became larger than the stories. Isabeau had met few men
outside her father’s domain. A few were bigger, or broader than Don -- than the
earl. But none had exuded the pure manhood of the Earl of Bennington. His power
dwelt in his iron will, in his character, and had naught to do with the
trappings that were of such importance to Simon.

 Donovan
of Bennington must have a strong will to survive the wounds that created those
scars. Only sheer determination would have sent him back to the battlefield
after the first cut.   

What
kind of man is he, she wondered?  Had she erred when she offered her
condolences, or had he the same longings Isabeau felt – the desire to share
memories of parents, of grand-parents, of heritage? Pray God he had not thought
her cruel to call his loss to his memory.

She
forced her thoughts away from Donovan – dare she call him by so familiar a
name, even in her thoughts? While she worked to ready the midday repast, she
barely pulled the kettle away in time as soot fell down into the fireplace.
Luckily it was not a brick. Like so much at d’Olivet, the chimney needed
inspection. She realized anew the prodigious neglect the estate had suffered
under Simon’s lax stewardship. Would Donovan see it? Of course. He was no fool.
But would a man such as the earl -- a hardened warrior -- realize the extent of
Simon’s slothfulness and its evil fruit in the lives of Olivet’s people?

And
-- would he tell Simon of her betrayal?